Art of a Grunt
by Metal Butter
Summary: After banning him from candy, Mikoto forces six-year old Itachi to write a poem. Oneshot. Itachi-centric.


**Art of a Grunt**

**A~N: I just suddenly had this idea. I'm not inspired enough to lengthen my ABB chapters, but plot bunnies come to see me about other things. It's like, some person comes up to you, the doctor, to cure only his slight asthma but he has A TROPICAL INFECTION THAT HE KNOWS ABOUT AND DOESN'T WANT TO GET CURED. Insert facepalm here.**

**Metal Butter(and the person who is Metal Butter) owns nothing.**

**Lalala~**

Itachi held a piece of paper in his grimy paws. He raised it triumphantly. Three seconds. It had taken him three seconds to come up with a poem. The moment inspiration struck him, he had scribbled it down furiously. Like, Hiraishin-fast.

Three seconds to write an epic poem at the ripe(or raw) age of seven years old. Daresay he, this poem would go down in history like Beowulf, or the Odyssey, or "Roses are Red". Truth be told, the latter wasn't an epic poem, but it was still famous. It had a lot of parodies, for example:

_Roses are red,_

_Violets are blue,_

_Yo mama so ugly,_

_She looks exactly like you!_

Itachi smiled at the thought of that one. Shisui had told him about the poem, but hadn't actually explained the joke before he, Shisui, was dragged by his thumbs to his room by Itachi's aunt. Itachi had recounted it to his little brother, who had gone cross-eyed and asked him what it meant. Of course, being seven, Itachi didn't know what it meant; but that didn't stop him from thinking it was funny. Sasuke had then asked their father, who had flooded the gates of laughter and broke the dam. He was not very useful.

The both of them had went to their mother for her seemingly never-ending stream of advice, like "If you pick your nose, it will rupture and you'll look ugly" and "Don't put on those silly faces, you'll stay that way and everybody will absolutely despise you".

When asked, Mikoto's face took on a reddish-pink, then a jolly shade of red, then rainbow, then back to the normal complexion. She had berated them, made them cookies, then dragged them by their thumbs to their respective rooms, cookies stuffed unceremoniously in their mouths. Bittersweet treatment, but the cookies were all worth it. Of course, the boys could have gotten more cookies if they'd been 'nice', but they didn't even know. They didn't even know.

Besides, their lifelong goal of being 'nice' children was still out of reach. That one poem hadn't been explained to them yet.

Which brings us back to the present. As you must know, Itachi had been pressured by his mother to write a poem for a few days now. To get her to shut up(Itachi had learned basic tactics from his father, who told him to teach it to Sasuke), he had waddled into the living room, paper in hand and absent-mindedly chewing on the pencil, settled at the table, and started writing words as fast as he could.

Mikoto came into the living room, the warm scent of cookies still on her apron. Itachi's mouth watered. He would get even more than cookies if his product turned out excellent, which it would. He. . . he would be allowed to eat candy.

His mother wiped her hands on her apron in a comfortingly familiar way, and sat down next to him. She smiled at him in a nice motherly way. "Well, Itachi. Have you finished your poem?"

Itachi nodded, smiling back at her. Well, it was actually a full-front beam, used only by the likes of Might Guy. Mikoto was unfazed by the brilliance of his smile. She was used to it whenever Fugaku tried to bribe her or convince her to let him do something mundane. "Let me see it then, " she said.

Itachi swiped up his paper and gave it to her in a ceremonious fashion. A seven year-old Uchiha can be as ceremonious as a royal wedding if he(or she) wants to.

His mother settled her eyes on the piece of paper.

"_Hn" by Uchiha Itachi_

_Hns are red_

_Hns are blue_

_Hn, hn, hn. _

_P.S. Can I have candy?_

Needless to say, Itachi was not allowed to eat candy.

**A~N: I made up that yo mama joke. Although I wouldn't be surprised if it's already been on the internet. Originality is not my, um, field. . . of. . . practice. **


End file.
